“No worries, man.” He continues through the doorway and claps me on the shoulder. “Enjoy the party.”
I linger, watching him as he melts into the crowd, mildly annoyed that I didn’t get to appreciate the view for longer. Maybe there’s something to Aldo’s words after all. It’s certainly been way too long since I got laid if I’m lusting after straight frat guys.
The queer community at Franklin West is small, which is to be expected. I hooked up with a guy a few times last year, but he graduated, and I haven’t really given this year much thought. Sol’s summery scent lingers, and it’s only when someone else says ‘excuse me’, forcing me from the doorway, that I snap out of it.
Stepping outside and leaning against the wall, I’m disappointed to find that many others have had the same idea. It’s as noisy outside as it is inside.
Sure. I can be more present this year. That means I can imagine that intense little moment going a different way when I get back to my dorm, right? Even with the laughter and chatter surrounding me, my mind replays the way Sol’s firm chest pressed against mine, but instead of moving on, I push into him, inhaling the peppery citrus scent and tasting his skin. A groan builds in my chest as I imagine the slightly salty taste, and how he would have slid his hands around me, tilting his head to give me better access.
“Hey, man. I thought you left!”
Colton Wright’s voice pulls me from my fantasy, and I blink, shifting against the wall as I become painfully aware of the semi I’m sporting. “Hey. No. I came out for some fresh air.”
Wright nods and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Me too.”
I laugh and look pointedly at the stick he pulls out. “So fresh.”
Clapping him on the shoulder, I head back inside. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke and if I stay out there, I’ll probably end up lecturing Jackson on lung capacity and how smoking as a swimmer is fucking stupid, He’s a junior, with a good chance of taking the captain spot next year, but he doesn’t seem to take it very seriously.
As soon as I step back inside the heaving frat house, I regret it.
So. Many. People.
It’s going to take me the entirety of Sunday to recover. On paper, it might seem like I’m ‘doing’ college well, but Aldo had a point when he called me out. As editor of the newspaper, I get to sit at my computer with my earbuds in and ignore the world. As part of the swim team, I get to spend my time in the blissful silence of being underwater. People are exhausting.
Trying not to look as annoyed as I feel, I make my way over to where the team is laughing, drinking, and dancing. I can do this. Well. For another hour, at least, then I’m out of here.
SOL
I shouldn’t be drinking. This fact is repeated continuously by the annoying voice in the back of my head as I knock back yet another shot, the thrum of alcohol buzzing in my veins. I’ll stop soon. It’s stupid, really. Lacrosse season doesn’t start until February, but Coach Pearson likes to get a few friendlies in before the weather turns. There are only four colleges who follow his line of obsession, but it means while everyone else is partying it up at the start of the year, I have to bargain with my conscience at the same time.
Last week, after the Wolf Pack’s opening party, practice was brutal as fuck. I swear Coach Pearson knew most of us had been drinking and worked us extra hard. At least I’m never alone in my stupidity. I catch Zak’s eye and he grins at me, his brown eyes bright as he knocks back his own shot. I laugh and reach to mess up the two inches of afro he’s grown out over the summer, but he ducks out the way. We’ll suffer together in the morning. Like always.
Tonight is the opening party for the Bed Bugs. Okay. Beta Epsilon Delta aren’t really called that, but their initials spell ‘bed’ for fucksake. No. They call themselves the Bees and their house the Hive, because in Greek letters, their acronym looks a little like ‘bea’. It’s a fucking stretch if you ask me.
“Drink up,” I shout over the music, shoving Alex, my other best friend, in the shoulder.
He glares at me for a second, annoyance blazing in his bright blue eyes, then knocks back his shot. He doesn’t play sports, so there’s no excuse for him not to get as drunk as a freakin’ skunk. You don’t have to be a genius to tell that something’s eating him up, and I know exactly what it is.
Last week at the Den’s opening party, Sasha Darryn, the president of the Bees, called him out on being a man-whore and because it’s only a couple of weeks into the year, it’s all anyone can talk about. I mean, yeah, Alex has way more sex than anyone else I know, but why the hell not? With his thick brown hair, toned physique and sharp jaw, he’s a really good-looking guy, and it’s not like he has to go looking for it. The women of Franklin West practically throw themselves at him.
“Hey!”
I tense as a tall, lanky redhead struts over to where Alex, Zak and I are standing. He doesn’t look familiar, so I figure he’s a freshman. Either he knows someone in the Wolfpack or he’s clueless, because it’s a ballsy move for him to be here without an invite.
He grins at Alex. “You’re Dirty Dick, right?”
My friend stiffens and although I’m trying really hard not to laugh, I tense, ready to step in if he decides to take a swing.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” Alex says through gritted teeth.
The ginger kid’s eyes widen in fear, and laughter reaches us from somewhere nearby. Narrowing my eyes, I scan the party only to find the swim team on the other side of the room all giggling like fucking fourth graders. Well, all except for one.
My breath catches as I find Wes Bowers’ dark brown eyes fixed on us. On me. I try to smile, but all I can do is meet his stare. He’s a senior this year too, so it’s not like I haven’t seen him around over the past three years. As editor of The Howl and a major player on the swim team, he’s someone everyone at Franklin West is aware of. But after last week, I’m a little more aware of him than before. After all, that’s what awkward encounters do, right? Linger.
My skin heats as I recall the way we’d found ourselves wedged in the doorway at the Den last week. Note to self: two twenty-one-year-old male athletes can not fit through a door together.
Alex’s seething pulls my attention, and I look away, squeezing my friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be old news soon enough.”